


Break Apart to Come Together

by Revenant



Series: Stiles Stilinski 100 [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Mid Season Finale, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 05, Stiles Leaves Beacon Hills, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4754186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenant/pseuds/Revenant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The truth is that everything Stiles really needs fits inside a single duffel bag.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break Apart to Come Together

**Author's Note:**

> **prompt 71: Broken.**
> 
>  
> 
>  **A/N:** This story was inspired by [this gifset](http://dragons-are-a-girls-bestfriend.tumblr.com/post/127746991019/dylandhoechlin-au-derek-comes-back-to-get#tumblr_notes). It stays closer to canon and is how I could see these events potentially unfolding after the mid-season finale. As such, it isn't full Sterek, but I consider it pre-slash. You can read it as being entirely gen. I didn't tag for malia/stiles because they're not romantic here, but Malia is present. This turned out entirely different than I was expecting, but I hope you still enjoy it!
> 
> Please be aware, I write Stiles' reaction to Scott how I imagine he might respond given his emotional state. I think the both of them will be pretty messed up and conflicted when the second half of this season starts but this is only Stiles' POV and it occurs within a tight span of time following the mid-season finale, so things are pretty raw.
> 
> Also, I have included a tag to indicate Malia and Stiles interact in this story because I received some complaints about this and I can see (and to some extent even agree) that there are some troubling aspects to her dynamic with Stiles. None of this features in this story, however, which is why there was no tag from the start, but in the interest of full-disclosure I added it. In retrospect it always should have been there because Malia features here as a friend (I only recently started tagging for friendship relationships though, so I have to get used to it! I apologize if her presence startled anyone) I _always_ had a tag indicating her presence in this story, however, as I am aware that she is controversial. Here is me going further and explicitly stating: if you have an issue with Malia Tate then do not read this work, as she features in it. If you choose to read this work then do not comment about your issues with her character, please, or her relationship with Stiles. You have been warned and, I feel, any more tags 'warning' about her would be beyond ridiculous. Thank-you.

Over the years Stiles has acquired a lot of stuff: posters, DVDs, books, comics, games, pictures and so on, just a lot of _things_ , enough to fill a whole room, to clutter shelves and hall closets and, inexplicably, beneath the sofa. His stuff takes up space anywhere. Everywhere. 

It's normal. People do that. They acquire, accumulate, amass, and all that crap, when put together, maybe is supposed to offer insight about the person. From his collection of Batman comics and DVDs and video games, one might surmise of Stiles that he enjoys Batman. (Stiles doesn’t just _enjoy_ Batman, he relates to it on a deeply personal level.)

But the truth is that everything Stiles really needs fits inside a single duffel bag.

He zips it closed and for a moment flashes back in time to two years ago. Christ. Two years. When he was standing there zipping his backpack closed, thinking about Eichen House, hoping it was enough to actually contain him. Hoping it would be enough to keep everyone else safe.

A duffel bag is better than a backpack. At least no one's going to take his shaving stuff away, or argue over the photo album he's tucked away safe at the bottom of his bag. No one's going to rifle through his belongings and pass judgment. 

There's a double-knock on his opened door. His dad offers a tight, grimacing smile. "You ready, kiddo?" 

It's one thing that Stiles needs that can't fit in his duffel bag, one thing that he can't take with him.

The one thing that matters most.

He's not ready and he doesn't want to go. 

Dragging the bag up onto his shoulder, Stiles nods. "Yeah. I'm ready."

_____________________________________________

He can't keep track of anything, doesn't remember making the call that brings the ambulance to their location, doesn't remember what the EMTs tell him or what they do, doesn't remember following them into the back of the ambulance. His entire world is narrowed down to the intermittent pulse that he can feel under his fingers where they're pressed into his dad's wrist.

Stiles can't let go; he’s not ready to let go. That steady beat is his lifeline.

He's lost everything else he can't lose his dad. He won't.

"You need to let go," a nurse tells him at the hospital. He's never seen her before. He doesn't know her. She's not Melissa. "Come on, honey. They'll do their best, but you can't go back there with them."

For a second, he can't remember how to move his hand. "Is he going to be okay?" Stiles asks, but once he's relinquished his hold on his dad's wrist the doctors wheel the stretcher away and the nurse follows after them. He stumbles in their wake, falters and then stands still.

Stiles folds himself into a chair and he waits.

There's blood on his hands. His dad's blood. Stiles can't look away. He won't let himself wash his hands, won't let himself forget. Not until he knows for sure. Not until someone can come out and promise him that his dad is going to be okay.

There is blood on his hands.

"Hey," Scott says, quiet. He drops down into the other chair, movements slow as molasses, like he's tired, hurting. Stiles watches as Scott sighs, slumps forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

 _You're alive,_ a part of Stiles thinks, relieved. 

_You're alive,_ a part of him sneers, unsurprised. 

There's blood on Stiles' hands and he can't look away, and neither can Scott. 

"How's he doing?" Scott asks in that same hush. Maybe it's a respectful quiet or maybe it's exhaustion. Stiles doesn't ask. He's been worried but somehow, now that Scott is right here beside him the only feeling creeping passed the numbness is a slow burning rage.

 _Why do you care?_ He wants to ask, sharp and biting. _Why are you even here? Why bother?_

 _I'm glad I didn't choose you,_ he wants to say. _Obviously you can take care of yourself. You don't need me. Probably you never did. I made the right call for once._

He wants to sneer and snarl and chase Scott off with his anger. He doesn't do any of that. He's forgotten how to speak. He's not entirely certain if Scott is really sitting beside him, not sure he isn't just a hallucination.

"It's going to be okay, okay?" Scott sounds confident, encouraging. 

Stiles doesn't believe him. 

"There's always hope, Stiles." Scott says those words like they mean something important. He says that and other things, like just speaking it aloud will make it true. 

It's naïve. Scott has always been so naïve, and there was a time where Stiles liked that about him, valued it, even. That was something that should be protected, he had thought. But now something curdles inside him, low in his gut. "Just stop," Stiles says. "Stop talking."

Scott doesn't give up. "I'm sorry, Stiles. Okay? _I'm sorry._ " He looks so _sincere_.

"Can you …." Scott says, cautious. "Can you tell me what happened? With Donovan?"

Stiles stares at his hands. "I thought you knew what happened?"

Scott shrugs. "I don't know. I'm not so sure that I do."

 _One, two, three, four,_ Stiles counts his bloody fingers, one by one. 

"Stiles?"

Stiles counts until he reaches ten. Then he starts over.

They wait.

"You were right about Theo," Scott says. He sighs, slumps back in the chair and slides down, his head tipped to rest on the chair-back. His mouth pinches. He doesn't look apologetic just disappointed.

Stiles stares at him and then he starts to laugh. 

It's quiet at first but he can't stop once he's started and it gets louder until he's curled over gasping, pressing the back of his bloody hand over his mouth trying to stifle the sound, and he's crying and he can't breathe and he can't stop.

Scott's eyebrows pinch together with worry. "Stiles?" 

"Fuck you," Stiles laughs and keeps on laughing. "Fuck you, Scotty."

It means something that Scott doesn't just get up and walk away. It means more than an apology, at any rate. 

But Stiles isn't ready to forgive, and he's not going to forget. He doesn't think either one of them ever will.

 _"Don't worry about Malia, or Lydia,"_ Scott had said. _"Maybe you should talk to your dad."_

He'd said that, and then he'd turned around and walked away.

 _"You can't help Scott and save your dad's life."_ Theo had told him. _"You've still got time, Stiles."_

Stiles made his choice and it had been easy. He'd made his choice and he doesn't regret it.

 _You walked away first,_ Stiles thinks. _You left me first._

Scott made his choice and now Stiles' dad is in the hospital and there's blood on Stiles' hands.

Slowly, Stiles curls his fingers into a fist.

_____________________________________________

“Your pillow,” his dad says, halting midway down the stairs.

Stiles glances down to the duffel that’s hanging off his arm and realizes that his dad is right, he’s forgotten to tuck his pillow between the handles like he usually does.

“I’ll get it,” his dad says, already turning. 

Stiles watches him go. He moves with a frustrated slowness, like he’s not expecting to feel so tired. There’s still a bandage over his throat that Stiles hates the sight off, can’t stop staring at. He’s healing, Stiles reminds himself. The doctor had said, “Out of the woods”. He hadn’t understood why Stiles had started laughing.

The fucking woods. The fucking Preserve. 

If only they were all out of the woods. If only they had never fucking gone in there to begin with.

His dad comes back, pillow in hand. “I’ve got it,” he says when Stiles reaches out to take it from him. “Don’t give me that look. It’s a pillow, kid, not a ten ton weight.” The pillow creases under the press of his fingers, his knuckles gone white.

Stiles shrugs. “Whatever you say, daddy-o.”

_____________________________________________

“You look like a gargoyle,” Malia comments when she visits the hospital. “Has Scott come by? Have you been home at all?”

Stiles wants to tell her that Scott stayed with him until his dad came out of surgery. That Melissa pops in every once in a while. All he can muster is a shrug. He has no concept of time. He can’t remember when he ate or slept or moved. He must have done all of those things at some point. His hands are pale when he glances down on them. The red is gone, no longer visible.

Malia sighs. “This is a really bad time to fall apart, Stiles.”

“I don’t care,” he says, and then he says it again, this time with more conviction, biting each word out so it’s a sentence. “Malia. _I don’t care._ ”

“Well that’s bullshit, Stiles! We’re in trouble here!”

“We’re always in trouble,” he scoffs. “We’re always going to be in trouble. I’m not even in the pack, okay? Didn’t you get the memo?” She blinks at him, startled and Stiles realizes he’s shouting, that he’s pulled himself up in his chair like he’s readying to spring at her.

All at once the fight goes out of him. He slumps back, rubs his hands over his face and through his hair. “I can’t do this right now. I’ve literally got nothing, Malia. I’ve got _nothing_.” 

She shifts, her lips pinching and chin jutting out like she does when she’s being stubborn. “That’s just crazy. Since when do you give up? For _anything_ , _ever?_ ”

“You’re not listening to me.”

“And who says you’re out of the pack?” she barrels on. “Since when? Maybe Scott’s pissed you kept what happened with Donovan from him but he’ll get over it! We’ve got real problems right now, okay? We need you, Stiles. _I_ need you.”

“My _dad_ needs me!” he tells her, then feels immediately guilty. Since Eichen House he’s told her things he hasn’t even told Scott, they’ve talked about things that he didn’t think he could share with anyone else, and she’s always been supportive. There’s a ruthless pragmatism in her that Stiles appreciates. She’s realistic and honest. She’s never made him feel inferior for anything the way he sometimes feels when he talks to Scott.

Who wouldn’t aspire to be like Scott? Who _wouldn’t_ prefer a genuine, idealistic, hopeful and open friend? Or son? 

As opposed to whatever Stiles is. Bitter. Burned out. Wary.

He sighs. “It’s just … Malia, this is my dad. I can’t … not when he might …”

For a long moment she just stares at him. The silence stretches out like shadows in a tomb.

“Lydia’s in Eichen House,” she says. “I found her in the woods. And there weren’t any bodies around the Nemeton, no one knows where they've gone now. Lydia’s basically crazy and I think my mother is coming back to Beacon Hills. Stiles, I’m _freaking out_.”

He shakes his head and keeps shaking his head. “Scott’s the alpha. Scott’s _your_ alpha. Talk to Scott.”

“And what about you, huh?” she snaps. “Who are you?”

The answer seers through him all at once, bright and hissing sharp as a flare. “I’m no one.”

_____________________________________________

“You’ve got your bag. You’ve got your pillow,” his dad says, going through a mental checklist. “What else. Have you got money?” Stiles nods and rolls his eyes. “And your phone, you’re sure you’ve got that?”

“I didn’t forget my cellphone. Geez, dad.”

“I’m sorry you don’t have your Jeep. I’m going to see what they can do about it.”

“Sure.” He can’t swallow passed the lump in his throat. He can barely breathe. “She’s held together mostly by duct tape at this point. I think it might be time to call it.”

“Well I’m not ready to do that just yet. At least, not until I hear what the mechanic says.”

There’s a stubborn part of him that wants to argue. _‘The mechanic didn’t even know what was wrong with her to begin with!’_ he wants to snap. _The Jeep is gone, it’s dead, stop talking about it._

It hurts any time anyone mentions it.

It’s just a truck. He should get over it.

“I’ll let you know what they say,” his dad continues on. “And I want you to call me and check in. Okay? I expect your news to be boring and routine, but I want to hear it anyway.”

Stiles finds himself smirking. “How much do you want to bet that I get there and Beacon Hills goes quiet and San Francisco starts falling apart? Do you think there’s a giant evil trea-beacon in San Fran?”

“Jesus, kid, don’t even joke about that.”

_____________________________________________

Stiles drives his dad home from the hospital in the cruiser. It’s probably against the law, but no one tells him not to and the Jeep is out of commission. “Take it easy,” he says, hovering around the nose of the car as his dad climbs from the passenger seat.

“Been a while since I’ve ridden shotgun in this thing,” his dad says, breathy and quiet.

“Here, let me.” Stiles steps forward and closes the door while his dad wrestles his cane into position. “You good?”

“Stop hovering.”

“Sorry. Fine. I’m stopping.” He doesn’t stop though because he’s physically incapable. Stiles shadows his dad’s slow steps, tipping his head back and pretending to watch the sky, the leaves rustling in the listless wind, a bird, whenever his dad turns to glare at him.

When they get inside Stiles locks the front door and then claps his hands together. “Okay!” he says. “You hungry? I’m a little hungry. Should I make lunch? I’m gonna make lunch.”

His dad stands by the kitchen table, one hand resting on his cane the other balanced on the back of a chair. He’s been mostly silent since they left the hospital, and he won’t look Stiles in the eye.

"You and me, we made a promise," his dad says. "You do what you need to, but when I ask for the truth you give it to straight up. No BS." 

Stiles wishes that his dad went on avoiding eye-contact because this feels like a punch to the solar plexus. He’s winded. It’s a test, Stiles knows from experience, and it’s one he can't pass. 

He skirts his eyes away on instinct.

One, two, three, four, Stiles starts counting, reminds himself to breathe.

"This is me asking, kiddo," his dad says, and then, "Stiles." He stops when his voice goes hoarse. Starts again, almost pleading. "Stiles, you gotta tell me what's going on here." 

Then he places Stiles’ library keycard onto the kitchen table. A quiet accusation.

Stiles can't stop staring at it. 

_How did they even get here?_ he wonders, though he’s painfully aware of every single choice he made to bring him to this precise moment, to this broken, vulnerable place. To his dad, pale and bandaged and breathless but alive, standing in their kitchen looking at Stiles with that keycard on the table between them. 

"Dad," Stiles croaks. There's tears in his eyes, he tries to blink them away. 

He's thinking about Donovan: the hatred in his voice and in his eyes and in every part of him. The way he'd grabbed for Stiles, the malicious grin, the pain of those teeth, the panic. 

The relief. That moment where Stiles had just _known_ , and he’d turned around and _seen_ and he’d thought, _"Thank God. Thank God that's over."_

"Daddy," he says again as the world blurs and his dad is just there, a steadfast presence. He pulls Stiles into a hug and Stiles goes, lets himself be dragged against his dad's chest. He pretends like his dad is strong enough to keep the whole world away.

Stiles starts talking and he can’t stop, every detail spilling out of him. It’s like lancing a wound. It hurts and the hurt feels good, feels satisfying. _You should hate me,_ Stiles thinks. _You should be so disappointed. I’ve let everyone down._

He’s almost looking forward to it. Anticipating the look of disillusioned heartache that will be all over his dad’s face when he’s done talking.

"Jesus," his dad breathes when the whole horrible story is out there. "Jesus kiddo.” He pushes Stiles back, his hands framing the side of Stiles’ head. He says, “Something like that happens you call and you _tell_ me. _I am your first phone call,_ do you understand?"

"I did," Stiles insists. "I called 911 I just … I couldn’t…" he couldn't speak. He forgot how, and then a second later he thought 'It's probably better this way. It's better if I don't say a word.'

His dad is shaking his head. "I don't mean 911, I mean me. _Your dad_. Do you hear me?"

Your dad. Not 'the sheriff', 'your dad'.

“But—“

His dad cuts him off, “No buts. This is a new house rule starting now. Shit, I thought this went without saying.”

“You just swore,” Stiles points out weakly. 

“You’re goddamned right I did,” his dad says. “Listen to me. I need you to hear this.”

He stares Stiles right in the eye and he won’t let Stiles drop the gaze. "This was an accident, you get that, don't you?" He doesn’t wait for Stiles’ answer before continuing, "Forget chimeras and werewolves and whatever the hell else. If this was two kids. Not even my kid. Just two random kids and this happened.”

“I know,” Stiles lies. “It’s self defense.”

“No. _An accident_. Self-defense is you striking out with a wrench when someone snuck up behind you and hurt you. That’s self-defense. What happened after that, though...”

“But I –“

“You told me you were trying to escape. He had an advantage on you and you needed to get away. The rod falling the way it did, I mean.” His dad shakes his head, hisses a sigh like a kettle boiling over. “That’s one in a million, that’s a sick twist of fate.”

What if it was like the mountain ash? Stiles thinks all of a sudden, the though spilling a cold-wash down his spine. What if, unconsciously, Stiles believed the rod would fall like that and so it did? What if, even without consciously meaning to, Stiles made it happen? Is that possible? Is that a thing?

He can’t breathe.

“Bottom line,” his dad is saying. “He attacked you and you defended yourself. At worse, this is self-defense. Okay?”

“Donovan’s still dead. I still killed him.”

His dad draws him into another hug, crushes him so tight that Stiles almost crumbles to dust. “We’re going to get through this, Stiles. You and me, because that’s what we do, right?” It’s what his dad said after they buried Stiles’ mom, once his dad realizes he couldn’t hide from reality inside a bottle of whiskey. 

The thought makes Stiles ache, makes him smile. “We’re Stilinskis,” he says, just like he did back then.

“You’re damned right we are.” His dad ruffles his hair and offers a wincing smile, his blue eyes glinting grey. His dad’s eyes always look grey when he’s worrying. “We’ll figure this out,” he promises.

Stiles’ fingers grip the soft cotton of his dad’s shirt and won’t let go.

_____________________________________________

“I still think this is an overreaction,” Stiles says. His bag is waiting by the front door, his pillow resting on top of it. They’re killing time. Waiting.

His dad looks entirely unconvinced. “This is the right thing.”

What’s worrying is that Stiles can’t argue, doesn’t really want to argue. “You should at least come with me.”

His dad laughs. “I’m the Sheriff, kid. I can’t just take off.”

“A holiday,” Stiles suggests.

“Hell of a time to go on vacation. I would like to keep my job, you know.”

“Really?” Stiles teases. “After all of this, you’re sticking with Beacon Hills?”

His dad isn’t joking when says, “Especially now, after all of this.”

At least Stiles knows where he gets his bullheadedness. 

“This doesn’t feel right.” Which isn’t what Stiles meant to say. Ever.

His dad nods, like he’s not surprised. “I know. Believe me.” 

They sit there, side by side on the couch in the living room. It’s late, there’s only one lamp turned on and it lights the room with orange tinted warmth. His mom picked that lamp out. Stiles wonders when he’ll be able to come home. He wonders if he’ll want to.

There’s things he’s leaving behind that he’s glad to let go.

There’s things he's leaving behind that he’s not sure he can survive without.

“Don’t have a party the moment I walk out the door, okay? Promise?” he asks. 

“Well shoot,” his dad says. “I’ve already ordered all the red meat and donuts the town’s got. The delivery guy’s probably on his way already, I can’t cancel the order now.”

“I'd like to see you try and swallow red meat right now. Your health isn’t a laughing matter. I’ve got your doctor’s number, I can call and make sure you’re making your appointments and doing your physio.”

“Which one of us is the dad?”

There’s a knock on the door and they both sit for a second, bracing themselves. “I know you’re in there, Stiles,” Malia calls. 

They both let out a breath.

“You told her?” Stiles whispers.

His dad nods. “Surprised you didn’t, actually.”

If he’d told anyone that he was leaving Stiles would have changed his mind. He’s seconds away from calling it off as it is. There's too much unfinished, he's walking out right in the thick of things. At the very least, he should stay and see this through. 

But he can’t.

His dad claps a hand on his shoulder, “I’ll let you two talk.”

Malia steps into the living room with her hands clasped in front of her. “I wanted to say good-bye.”

“You’re not going to yell at me?” 

The cushions shift when she drops down beside him. She nudges their shoulders together and he looks up from his hands. “I’m angry,” she says, like she’s reciting a fact. “I’m hurt.”

“I’m sorry, Malia. I wish I could –“

“Let me finish,” she says, then waits until he dutifully pinches his mouth closed. She draws in a deep breath, like she’s been running over what she wants to say for a while and is preparing to finally relay it. “He’s your dad, and I know you guys are … complicated,” she twists her lips like she knows that’s not an adequate word to describe the relationship between Stiles and his dad. “You’d do anything for him, and I get that. And,” she huffs. “I’m not even sure that he’s wrong.”

“You don’t think I could help?” he asks, because he can’t help himself.

“No, _I know that you can_ ,” Malia answers immediately. She pulls herself back, and shrugs. “I just understand where he’s coming from. There’s a lot going on in town and … and I think maybe we all forget sometimes…”

She falls quiet, her brows pinched together in a frown. Stiles waits but he’s not known for his patience, can’t help but ask, “Forget what?”

Her eyes are wide and warm and brown when she looks at him, sad and apologetic at once. She says, “That you’re human.”

_____________________________________________

It’s strange to go to school when the whole town is falling apart but Stiles does. His dad drops him off and picks him up. “This is embarrassing,” Stiles mutters. He doesn’t mention his Jeep. They towed it away and there’s three messages from the mechanic on his cell and two on the house line. Stiles hasn't listened to any of them. He’s terrified that they’ll tell him it can’t be fixed.

It’s strange to walk through the halls and feel alone. It’s like he’s the new kid all of a sudden. Everyone is a stranger. 

Sometimes Scott catches his eye in the middle of class but Stiles never lets that last. He wants to apologize, he wants to explain, he wants to go back to the way things were. Every time he looks at Scott, though, he forgets that he wants those things. 

It’s strange to wait and hear the latest supernatural developments from his dad. He’s not used to it working like that. He’s not used to sitting down at the table and arguing over dinner about the supernatural world.

“There needs to be checks and balances,” his dad says. “There needs to be accountability. There needs to be punishment for crimes, and consequences.”

Donovan walks into school on Thursday and Stiles counts his fingers all the way to ten and still doesn’t believe he’s not dreaming. He can’t breathe and he can’t see straight and he only makes it to the bathroom because Malia half-carries him there.

“This is not the girl’s bathroom!” a guy squeals, frantically tucking himself back in and skittering away from the urinal.

“Deal with it,” Malia says, and turns on the cold water, patting Stiles’ face down with her cold damp hands. 

“I’m not arguing that supernatural creatures should be above the law,” Stiles says, with a slightly raised and frantic voice, that night. “But tell me how you think a human deputy is going to deal with something that has super-strength and can die and then _magically be alive again_? Tell me how you’re supposed to punish someone for a crime when the person they supposedly killed is walking around Beacon Hills? Tell me how that makes sense! Tell me how you can do all of that and not send everyone into massive panic?”

His dad says, “You need to leave Beacon Hills for a while.”

It’s not what stiles expected to hear at all. His voice cracks when he asks, “You’re sending me away?”

“You’re my _kid_ ,” is how his dad answers, and his voice is croaky and hoarse. “You’re _my_ kid.” He stabs his index finger down on the wood table to emphasize this point. “What does Scott know about the Doctors?”

“Dread Doctors,” Stiles corrects.

“I’m not calling them that.”

Stiles doesn’t really have an answer to give because no one really knows what’s happening in Beacon Hills, but they can all agree that it’s bad.

His dad nods, like he's not surprised. “And what does he think about Theo and his new pack?”

“My guess would be Scott’s not exactly happy about it?”

“But you don’t know for sure.”

“Well…” it’s hard to admit that Stiles can’t bring himself to talk to his best friend. It’s hard for Stiles to admit anything about how he feels for Scott right now. “It’s complicated.”

“I’ve had about all I can take here,” his dad says. “No, I mean it. I tried to be supportive when you came to me with this whole werewolf thing. I thought, well it’s not drugs. And to be honest, I knew there was no way I could keep you away from it, not when Scott was already neck-deep. But this is it, Stiles. I’m done. I’m putting my foot down.”

“Woah, wait, dad. What are you saying?”

“I’m not letting you risk yourself. Not this time. It’s enough. You’re leaving.”

“Hey!” Stiles protests. “I’m useful, okay? I do useful stuff all the time. The pack needs me. Without me they’d be chasing their own tails all day long!”

“No, you’re not hearing me. _I’m_ the dad. _You’re_ the son!”

Stiles flops back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “Not this again. We’ve been through this.”

His dad jabs a finger at him. “You just told me that a kid who was emotionally volatile and highly unstable _before_ he was genetically modified into a supernatural lamprey-whatever has come back from the dead and is walking around town. And apparently he’s hanging out with this Theo kid, who’s been manipulating everyone from the word go, who tried to kill the sheriff for Christ’s sake.”

“—well, I mean, he tried to kill you.”

“Me! I’m the sheriff!”

“Dad, I know who you are, okay? You don’t have to keep telling me.”

“This isn’t a joke, Stiles. For once in your life take your own safety seriously!”

Stiles gapes. His dad is angry and that's something that he's familiar with. Just not this. Whatever this is. 

Not this kind of anger.

His dad keeps talking. “You don’t think Donovan’s going to want revenge for what happened? On top of the revenge he already wanted? Stiles, you’re a bright kid. Think about this. Really think about it for a second.”

Stiles has been thinking about it, which is why he had to leave school early, and why he’s already had two panic attacks in the span of five hours. He swallows. “I know, okay? It’s dangerous, _I get it_.”

“No, it’s not dangerous,” his dad argues. “Don’t get me started on all the dangerous stunts you’ve pulled over the years. This is _beyond_ dangerous. This town is sliding into chaos that we are not even equipped to handle, starting with whatever these doctors are and ending with a supernatural werewolf-assassin, and you’re smack in the middle of it.”

“Come on, I wouldn’t say middle. I’m currently more chaos- _adjacent_. I mean, me and the pack haven’t been exactly simpatico lately.”

“Donovan has a vendetta against me and was willing to use you to hurt me. Now he probably has a vendetta against you too. Theo’s already proven that he will use you to get to Scott –“

“But he’s done that already. I doubt he’d care so much about me now that –“

“We’ve got some Dessert-Woman who apparently wants to kill her own daughter, your girlfriend by the way. I don’t think I need to tell you that this means there’s a strong chance that this supernatural assassin could harm you as a way to get to Malia.”

“She’s called the Desert-Wolf, dad,” Stiles corrects weakly.

“God only knows what my hell-hound deputy is capable of.”

“Well that was just uncalled for.”

“The risk is too high, Stiles. Scott can’t be with you twenty-four seven, and I know him. If you told him you wanted to go out and get some fresh air he’d let you go by yourself. He might have a heart of gold but he’s not bright, not about this. He's too trusting. And one mistake, that’s all it would take.”

“I won’t leave!” Stiles shouts. “I can’t do that. Don’t ask me to do that! I _can’t_.”

The hush that follows is the gathering electricity before a storm, the zing of riled energy, a spark humming across skin. “You keep saying that I’m all you’ve got,” his dad says. “That goes both ways, kid.”

“I know—“

“I’m not asking you, Stiles. I’m _telling_ you. I’m at the end of my rope here. I can’t do what I have to do for this town and worry about whether or not you’ve been taken prisoner by a bunch of psychopaths, or are being tortured or … or god knows what else. I can’t do that.”

“I can’t just abandon everyone.”

His dad looks mulish and angry, and then he releases a huge whooshing breath and his expression softens. "I get it, I do. Whatever's happened between you lately, these are your friends. Hell, Scott's practically family. But Stiles…" His dad trails off, lips pinching together, frowning hard. There's a shadow in his blue eyes, a shadow Stiles hasn't seen since he was a kid. “I can’t lose you. You’re human. You’re _human,_ you don't get a free pass the way these werewolves and whatever else do. A nd you’re my kid.”

He says, “You protect other people, of course you do, but you protect yourself first. You’re no good to anyone dead. You’re not … you can’t …”

The anger is gone and there’s a worrying dampness on his dad’s face and Stiles would do anything to make that stop. “Okay,” he promises. “Okay. But you have to come with me.”

“That’s not how it works. I’m the law in these parts. This might be a supernatural matter, but I can’t stand by while this goes on, and it’s not right to expect Scott to deal with this just because he’s an alpha. He’s still just a kid. You’re _both_ still just kids.”

This is happening, Stiles realizes. He is actually leaving town, and sure he’ll probably be coming back but maybe not. Maybe this whole mess with the Dread Doctors will last the whole school year, and then Stiles will have one summer and then he’ll be leaving again: off to college. Or maybe it will take even longer, and Stiles will be away for years.

Or maybe the Dread Doctors win and everything goes to hell and Stiles is the only one left.

Beacon Hills isn’t Sunnydale, he tells himself firmly. Beacon Hills _is not_ Sunnydale.

“I’ll get in touch with the principal,” his dad is saying. “You can transfer to another high school until things here settle down again. You just make the call and let me know.”

“Make the call?” Stiles echoes numbly. Who is he supposed to call? He runs his hands through his hair; it feels good so he does it again, harder. 

There isn't anyone left, really.

His dad’s smile is fond and light. "Don't be an idiot, kiddo. You know exactly who to call."

_____________________________________________

The next time there’s a knock on the door it’s steady and firm and Stiles _knows_ , the same way he's always just _known_. “He’s here,” he says out loud, just to say it.

He thinks: This is it. 

He thinks: No turning back now.

“You’re sure you’ve got everything?” his dad checks.

“I’m sure. Geez dad, at least let him in before you start mother-henning me.”

There’s something absurd and hilarious about seeing Derek Hale dipping his head shyly to Stiles’ dad and calling him ‘sir’. He looks the same: same hair, same eyes, same beard. He’s in a sweater and jeans standing, relaxed and easy but somber, in Stiles’ front hall.

“FYI, this is totally melodramatic,” Stiles says, because Derek’s in his house, standing in front of his dad, and it’s so much worse than it was on the phone, this nest of feelings clogging his chest. “I mean, stealing away at night, under cover of darkness?” 

“If you want I can make an announcement on the dispatch,” his dad graciously offers. “It’s seven thirty. Who’s being melodramatic now?”

“We can swing by the closest evil lair if you wanted to bid everyone a farewell.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” his dad says, cutting a dark look at Derek.

“Yeah, he’s kind of sensitive about that,” Stiles says. “I maybe should have warned you. There were some … words … exchanged the other day. I mean, Theo said some stuff, I said some stuff. I punched him in the face. Again.”

“You punched him in the face,” Derek says blandly.

“Sure. A couple of times.” Derek keeps staring at him until Stiles starts to feel awkward. “What?”

Stiles’ dad rubs a hand over his face. “Aw hell. I’m starting to think this was the wrong choice.” 

“Does that mean I can stay?” Stiles asks, perking up.

“No.”

Stiles makes a show of slumping with defeat, stomping his way to the door to grab his jacket. 

Derek looks at him with steady hazel-green eyes and asks, voice soft, “Are you sure about this?”

Stiles shrugs. “You ask that like I have a choice. I got guilt-tripped, dude. Hardcore guilt-tripped.”

“I love you, kid.” His dad drags him into a bone-crushing hug and then can’t seem to let go.

“Okay,” Stiles says, clapping a hand against his dad’s back. “Okay but if you actually want me to leave town you know you have to let go of me at some point.”

Stiles sighs. “Any time now.”

He’s not sure he could let go himself. 

He’s not sure he can make himself walk out the door of his home. Derek might have to drag him.

“Sheriff,” Derek says.

Stiles is released.

His dad looks him over and nods. “Alright. You call me when you get there.”

“It’s gonna be late – okay, okay, geez, don’t give me that look. I’ll call, I promise. You call too, okay? Keep me updated.”

“I love you kid,” his dad says again.

“I love you too, dad.”

_____________________________________________

They were just text messages. It wasn’t so much something that Stiles started after Derek left so much as something he just didn’t stop doing.

Before, when Derek was in Beacon Hills, Stiles sent courtesy texts. He’s always said that the pack had issues with communication and it had taken him a while to realize that acknowledging the problem was just the first step. 

So he did something about it.

Most times he didn’t get a response to but that didn’t matter so much.

Once Derek had left town Stiles sometimes forgot who he was messaging. It became a bit like those secret postcards, like he could say anything at all. The texts were always brief, but sometimes something personal would crept in: his worries about college, his high school friendships not lasting, that sort of thing. It wasn’t like Derek ever texted back advice or commiserated. It was literally the equivalent of shouting into a void. 

Then, every so often, Derek would send a text back his own updates, usually regarding the Desert Wolf.

Well, the text would be from Derek’s phone but Stiles was ninety five percent certain it was Braeden trying to keep the lines of communication open, just likes Stiles was. Always a terse status update just like Stiles would send. Sometimes the messages were cryptic, coordinates or weird slogans that turned out to be the motto of some small town in the middle of nowhere. It was like a scavenger hunt, figuring out what the message meant. But sometimes the text would make Stiles wonder, did this one come from Derek?

It was just texts though. Not even any decent back-and-forth. There’d be lags of days and weeks between, no consistency of any kind. No reason to think that Derek would answer the phone when Stiles called. No reason to think he’d care at all.

But he did. And he didn’t hang up when Stiles rambled his way through a very generalized explanation: he needed to get out of town for a bit, some place safe. He needed to be gone before anyone realized he might be going. He needed some way to be sure he wouldn’t be followed, and couldn’t be tracked. And he needed to know that wherever he ended up would be safe.

“I just figured,” Stiles says. “I guess my dad sort of figured too, that you might know how to do all of that. Tips or something. I mean, I have some distant relatives over in Santa Rosa but I didn’t want to move and then find out there was an alpha pack terrorizing Santa Rosa. The point is to escape the crazy.”

“There’s no alpha pack in Santa Rosa.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Well that’s good to know, I guess.”

“You’re going to move to Santa Rosa?” Derek asks.

“Uh. Sort of? Maybe? I mean, my dad’s pretty freaked and I guess this is the best we can come up with. He’s not comfortable with me on my own, and my close family is all … well you know.” Stiles winces.

“There’s no major supernatural activity in Santa Rosa.” Derek has some insight on how Stiles can keep his exodus secret, too. He offers his advice in short sentences, spoken softly and smoothly over the telephone. 

Stiles jots down notes in blue pen and tries to ignore the part of himself that is slowly unspooling, that relaxes and goes ‘ahh’. 

Derek was a fall-down mess of an alpha, and his plans had left much to be desired. His solution was usually ‘kill it’ and Stiles had been leery of him from day one.

Day. One.

But the simple truth was this: The only times that Derek seemed to forget that Stiles was human was when he was slamming him into walls or knocking his head against a steering wheel. Even then, he never pushed hard enough to bruise. Not the way Scott did when he lost control, back in the beginning. Derek had Stiles’ back. Messed up or not, he always tried to find a solution. 

He always _tried._

Stiles had been operating without a safety net for months now. He’d forgotten what it felt like not to be on his own.

“Okay. Got it and, thanks,” Stiles says when Derek winds down.

“For what?”

“I don’t know.” Stiles shrugs, wonders if Derek can hear him shrugging over the phone. How good is werewolf hearing exactly? “For picking up the phone? Answering my questions? Being helpful? I don’t know. Pick one. Hell pick all of them just, you know, _thanks_.”

Stiles is supposed to go and live in Santa Rosa with distant relatives.

He has no idea how the plan changes.

“I’m picking you up at seven thirty, does that work for you?” 

Stiles pulls his phone away from his ear and glances at it, but remains confused. “Who is this?”

“It’s Derek.” Even if the voice weren’t familiar, the many layers of exasperation would be enough.

“Cool. But why are you picking me up at seven thirty?”

There’s a short stretch of quiet. “Your dad hasn’t talked to you?”

“Uh, well, words were exchanged, in the oral fashion. I just got back from school and there was a thing with one of the lesser big bad's and, you know how it is—“

“Stiles, what are you talking about?” 

“I’m saying I talked to my dad but it seems like maybe I should go and talk to my dad, because apparently we didn't talk about what we should have talked about.”

“So you don’t know.”

“Know…” Stiles tries to say this in a prompting fashion, hoping that he can coax information from Derek by simply drawing this single syllable out.

Derek hangs up.

At dinner his dad explains that he’s done some thinking about this, “You’re not going back to school. If today showed me anything, it’s that you’re not safe there.”

“What?” Stiles asks. “ _I_ punched _him!_ ”

His dad frowns. “Theo Raeken approached you on your own and asked you _again_ to join his pack.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “And I told him no and then I punched him in the face.”

“He could very easily have hurt you. It was stupid to let you go back. I said one mistake was all it would take, and that could have been it. You’re not going to school tomorrow, you’re coming with me to the precinct.”

Stiles would argue this point but he’s becoming very familiar with the expression that is currently on his dad’s face. He changes the subject. “This weird thing happened before I came downstairs. Yeah, so Derek called me, totally out-of-the-blue, and just, like, randomly announced he was coming by to pick me up at seven-thirty for whatever.”

“Aw crap,” his dad says.

“ _Oh god_ ,” Stiles says.

“Now hear me out.”

“ _Oh no_.”

“Your relatives are good people, and they would take you in, but I think this might be better.”

“You’re not only sending me away, you’re sending me away to live with _Derek Hale_? Dad, do you even know what you’ve done?”

“I do, in fact. I know he’s stuck his neck out for you boys more than once, and I know that he’s helped me, as well. He’s a good kid.”

“Is everyone a kid to you?”

“When you’re my age, yes. I told you that we were going to come through this, and this is what I came up with.”

“Sending me to live with Derek Hale? This is like the beginning of a horrible rom-com. Why are you doing this to me, dad? I thought you loved me. Is everything I believe a lie?”

“Before you get any more dramatic answer me this, who else can understand what you’re dealing with right now? Who else can even come close?”

Stiles blinks. “Why, what am I dealing with.” It’s a dare, he knows it’s a dare even as he says it because he doesn’t talk about it. 

He. Doesn’t. Talk. About. It.

“Donovan’s alive. He walked into school yesterday no worse for wear so, you know. We’re all good here. I’m good.”

His dad’s look says more than the man himself will ever say out loud. Could ever say.

Carefully, Stiles lets his fork fall to his plate, his appetite gone.

The guilt is still there. The anger is there. The confusion, the rage, the sense of abandonment, the desperation, frustration, all of it and more, it’s all still there. No one else is talking about it, they can’t afford to. They have to come together because while Stiles was sitting like a gargoyle by his dad’s hospital bed, while he was flitting around the house making sure his dad had everything he needed, they were all out there dealing.

You can’t process this sort of crap when it’s all still happening.

But Stiles’ stepped out of the thick of it just long enough for all of it to catch up to him. He can’t go back. Not when he’s the only one it’s caught-up to.

He sighs, changes tacks. “Dad, Derek and I have this whole thing, okay?”

“You have a ‘thing’?”

“Yeah, a whole save-each-other’s-lives, annoy each other, hate each other, have each other’s back’s _thing_. It’s complicated. You can’t just send me to live with him. That’s not part of the thing. It _can’t_ be part of the thing.”

“He offered.”

“He _what?_ ”

His dad rolls his eyes and oh my god, is that what Stiles looks like when he does that? That’s horrible, that’s so horrible. He should stop rolling his eyes at people right now. 

“Derek called me and indicated that he’d be willing to put you up for a while. Think of it like a roommate situation. He’s got a loft in San Francisco, apparently, and there’s a spare room. I’m taking care of your expenses and compensating him. To tell you the truth, I’m relieved.”

“You’re relieved?”

“You need someone you can talk to. Now I’m not saying he’s your therapist,” his dad says when Stiles opens his mouth, preparing to argue. “Just that you’ve got an ear, if you need it. And if trouble follows you out there, you won’t be on your own. Hale’s got a level head on his shoulders, I trust that he can keep you out of trouble.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Dad, you have no idea.”

_____________________________________________

Derek shoulders Stiles’ bag before Stiles can get to it. When the pillow threatens to slip free he pulls it out and tucks it under his arm, and then he stands and waits quietly while Stiles and his dad hug again.

“Ready?” he asks, when Stiles finally steps up to the door.

Stiles can’t speak, but he nods.

He’s running away. He’s abandoning his family, his pack. He’s leaving them all behind. He’s jumping ship. He’s getting the hell out of dodge. He’s –

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek says, sharp.

“Right,” Stiles breathes. “Let’s go. Bye dad. See you.” Casual. Like he’s going around the corner.

His dad follows them out to the car; stands by the passenger door of Derek’s silver Toyota as Stiles climbs in. “Seatbelt,” he says.

“Dad, come on,” Stiles huffs, snapping his seatbelt into place. He sits there, hands in his lap. “Take care of yourself, okay? I mean it. I’m so serious dad.”

“I get it, I get it. I promise.” His dad backs away from the car only after Derek turns the engine over. He stands on the front step and watches as they reverse down the drive.

“Are you sure about this?” Derek asks quietly.

Stiles’ hand is gripping, white knuckled, around the door handle. “No,” he says. “Drive.”

Derek cuts down side streets and avoids the heart of town, but the way out of Beacon Hills passes by the Preserve and Stiles stares out his window at the dark trees. The Nemeton is in there somewhere, and the flat expanse of dirt where the Hale house once stood. Behind them Lydia is a fragmented shell being taken care of in the worst place in the world. Malia is essentially on her own, facing off against her mother. Liam’s got too much on his plate and Scott’s trying to keep them all together.

They need him. They’re his pack.

“Where’s Kira?” Derek asks.

Stiles jerks his eyes away from the forest. “What?”

“You said she’d gone but you never mentioned why.”

“Oh, right. Well.” He scratches his eyebrow with the back of his thumbnail. “Something’s going on with her whole kitsune mojo. She may or may not have killed someone and then blanked it out. Her parents took her out of town to … oh I see what you’re doing.”

“She didn’t run away, Stiles,” Derek says. “You’re not running away either.”

“The strength of the wolf is the pack, Derek. The pack is falling apart, and I’m not helping by leaving town.”

“You’re helping yourself.”

“That’s great. Super. Good talk, buddy.” 

Derek’s jaw clenches like he wants to keep pushing but Stiles glares as hard as he can and Derek lets it rest. 

“Where’s Braeden, anyway?”

“Here, actually.”

“She’s what?”

“Your dad didn’t mention?” Derek glances his way, turns back to the road. “She’s tracking the Desert Wolf. They have unfinished business.”

“That’s something, I guess.” At least Malia isn’t alone.

“Call them.”

“What?”

“Call them,” Derek repeats. “If you want to. When we get to the loft, call Scott, or Malia. Talk to them if you need to. You can still help, Stiles. But staying in Beacon Hills given what’s going on. You _know_. You _know_ Scott doesn’t always remember that you can’t do the things that he can.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Not always,” Derek says. “That’s not true. You know it’s not.”

“I can’t even look at him,” Stiles admits. “I hate his stupid face, and I want to scratch his eyes out and punch him and then the moment he’s out of eyeshot I just – I’m so messed up. That’s not normal, you know? That’s not a normal way to be, and it makes me think … makes me wonder…”

“It’s normal, Stiles.” Again the sideways glance. “Between brothers, that’s entirely normal. You still love him, still care for him, but you’re hurt and you’re angry. You just need some time to sort your feelings out.” Derek would know. He had three brothers.

“You’re not supposed to be my therapist. If I wanted a therapist I would have tracked down Morrell.”

“Okay.”

The silence stretches. Stiles has a complicated relationship with silence.

He breaks it immediately. “I’m not the Nogitsune.” Derek doesn’t say anything, and Stiles pushes. “My wanting to punch someone in the face and my being an evil fox spirit are two _very_ different things.”

“I know.”

Stiles glares at the man. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

Stiles keeps staring. "I kinda want to punch _you_ in the face." 

They turn off Forest Hill Park and Stiles mutters, “I hate this fucking town. Why does anyone still live here. It’s messed up.”

He says, “I don’t even like the school. It’s not like I talk to anyone anymore, we basically ignore each other, and the teachers. I mean geez. I did most of the reading over the summer just in case, too. You never know when you’re going to miss months of classes because … because … And half the building is closed for renovations, which means most of our classes are in these horrible trailers. Those things smell, you know? I don’t need a werewolf nose to know that they just reek.”

Derek slows the truck down just before the sign: You are now leaving Beacon Hills Come back soon!

“Are you sure?” he asks.

Stiles’ breath hitches. He stares at the sign, at the road beyond it.

He thinks of Donovan: his voice, and the teeth in his hand and the scar they’ve left on Stiles’ skin, the way the blood had sat, sticky and shining on his lips and throat as he'd stood there, slumped, with the pole through him. The way he’d smirked at Stiles when he walked into school.

He thinks of Scott, how he'd so casually made real Stiles’ single greatest fear when he’d turned around and walked away.

He thinks about Malia, Lydia, Liam and everyone else. Of Melissa and how she’d been distant at the hospital. Distant and quiet, her hand tentative as a whisper when she’d rested it on his shoulder.

He thinks about his dad, the way his dad had hugged him, the way his voice had sounded when he’d asked Stiles to consider his own safety for once.

Stiles doesn’t know much of anything anymore. He doesn’t know what the Doctors want, or what Theo wants, or what Malia’s mom is after. He doesn’t understand it; if he’d had more time then maybe… he’s got the book in his bag. He’s got the book and his laptop and his phone. He’s going to San Francisco not Tokyo. 

Everything that Stiles had trusted and believed in has crumbled down around him, has moved beyond his reach. In the wreckage is something new. Something strange that he never realized he had. That he’d never believed was there.

His dad said, _“We’re going to get through this, Stiles. You and me, because that’s what we do, right?”_

Stiles reaches across the space in the cab, wraps his fingers in the heavy fabric of Derek’s sweater and nods.

Derek presses his foot against the accelerator and they drive.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm supposed to be working on two WIPS and two other Big Bang entries, and instead I am angsting over S5. I fail!
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://dragons-are-a-girls-bestfriend.tumblr.com/)


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